


A Sincere Account of Everything, Excluding Us

by meggannn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Humor, Bittersweet, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fic Exchange, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Secret Relationship, Storytelling, Time Skips, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggannn/pseuds/meggannn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Varric stretched the truth to Cassandra Pentaghast, and the one time he told the — yeah, wait, he still hasn’t come clean about the whole thing yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sincere Account of Everything, Excluding Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ishie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishie/gifts).



> For thirddeadlysin on Tumblr in the 2015 Hightown Funk exchange. The request was broad enough to let me experiment with genres and situations, but I got several headcanons to incorporate and play with, so I decided to work as many as I could into a fic with a “Varric is most unreliable narrator ever about his personal life and here is EVEN MORE PROOF” angle, and see what could happen from there. If you’d like to know the requested headcanons I used, click on the link to the notes at the bottom. I hope you enjoy!

1.

_I figured, if two capable young ladies were interested in the expedition, it was worth a closer look — my brother wouldn’t recognize a good investment if it danced the remigold in front of him nude. And the cutpurse was a chump, probably some noble’s son loitering, didn’t even need the gold. It’d be, ah, downright ungentlemanly not to step in, right? They were in the middle of the square, distracted by their conversation, so the kid nudging his way through the crowd escaped their notice. Bianca was loaded by the time he’d made contact. Didn’t even lose the arrow, the kid was that slow. You can always spot the Hightown pickpockets — bored, inexperienced, barely make it ten feet before their targets realize their purses weigh a little lighter._

_But that was it, that was the first meeting. Hawke was so grateful for my reacquisition of her gold, of course, she insisted on treating me to a drink, but I told her she could repay me by investing in the expedition. I knew a good sign when I saw it._

—

“Gotcha!”

The kid hit the ground face-first with Hawke’s arms a vice around his middle; she followed him down, breath leaving her upon impact. Another spurt of blood as his face smashed against the pavement — she tried to regain her bearings, and Bethany yelled out something behind her, something worried —

Hawke wrestled with the pickpocket for a few moments, her bag of gold clenched in his sweaty palm. They were both smeared with his blood from the bolt broken off in his shoulder, courtesy of a charitable passerby — and Hawke managed a fortunate, well-placed knee to his stomach that left him wheezing. His hand went wild and the bag flew, drawstring loosened, silver and gold tumbling out in midair.

“Shit — ”

“That was meant to be a pinning shot,” an unfamiliar voice said. The passing dwarf was running up to them, the enormous crossbow clenched in his arms. “Damn kid’s sturdier than I thought. Barely slowed him down.”

The kid began hoarsely, “You didn’t — ” and the dwarf jammed the barrel end of the crossbow squarely into his middle, leaving him gasping for breath again.

Hawke was busy collecting the coins that had scattered across the pavement, packing them back into their bag. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Bethany rushing to fetch the ones that had rolled over to the merchants’ stalls before any other light fingers could commandeer them first.

With their luck, they’d probably lose a couple of silver in the confusion anyway. She counted the five sovereigns — no, four, where was the fifth? They’d had seven silvers and thirteen bits, she counted two and six —

“Apologies,” the dwarf’s voice came from above her. She glanced up to find his palm in front of her nose, offering four silver and two coppers. “Meant to pin him to that ruddy pillar. It was going to be great, very dramatic.” He was flushed, looking equal parts irritated and amused by the turn of events. To the pickpocket, he said, “Scram, kid,” and aimed a light kick at his injured shoulder as the would-be thief scrambled away. “Might want to find yourself a new line of work.”

“Thanks,” Hawke said, scooping up the coins before the stranger changed his mind. “It did slow him down, at least.”

“I pride myself in never allowing the universe a need to say ‘at least’ regarding my work, m’lady, but nevertheless.” The dwarf gave an exaggerated bow. “Varric Tethras, at your service. Want a drink?”

Hawke blinked.

“Marian — ” Bethany was back, offering her findings — which included the last sovereign, thank the Maker. She stuffed them into the bag as Hawke did some quick math.

“Five, seven, nine — ”

“Didn’t we have thirteen?” Beth peered into the bag. “Oh, no — that shady guy by the blacksmith might’ve pinched one, I thought I saw a few roll over there.”

“Leave ‘em,” the dwarf — Varric Tethras — said. “It’d be your word against his, and you’re refugees in the big city. Who d’you think the guard’ll believe?”

“We have a friend in the guard, she’d vouch for us,” Bethany replied, a bit affronted. “Pardon, ser dwarf, but who are you?”

“This is Serah Tethras,” Hawke said, “who has just invited me for a drink.”

“The both of you,” he corrected, packing up his crossbow. The gears whirred and snapped back into place, fitting to the holster on his back. “To make up for the four copper you’ve just lost.”

“If you’re offering to reimburse the lost coin, why not just hand us four bits and be on your way?” Hawke asked, ignoring Bethany’s irritated glance at her rudeness.

“Why, that would rob us of the opportunity to discuss your part in the expedition you’ve just unsuccessfully lobbied Bartrand into joining,” Tethras said casually. “Unless you’re no longer interested?”

Bethany looked reserved, but curious. “Serah Tethras — ”

“Varric, please.”

“Varric,” Hawke said firmly, and his attention immediately switched back to her, “I’m guessing you’re Bartrand’s relation, by the surname?”

“Sibling, unfortunately. Full-time job, for those of us in Merchant’s Guild, but someone’s got to hold the charming title of the difficult little brother of the family, yes?”

Hawke caught the smallest hitch in Bethany’s breath and the way her eyes flicked to the ground, looking pained; by the slight slip in his smile, it seemed like the dwarf did, too. Hawke cut in: “You’re part of the expedition, then? What’s this about discussing our involvement? Seemed like your brother’s mind was made up.”

He smirked and flapped a hand, easy as you please, and ushered them to follow him out of the marketplace. Bethany glanced at her sister, and Hawke looked back —shrugged — and started after him, hands buried deep into her pockets. Behind her, she heard Beth’s sigh and following footsteps.

—

“My question,” Hawke said, and the words were coming a little fast and slurred and she wasn’t quite sure some of them were making sense, but who was paying attention? “Is how you counted our money so fast, when it scattered in the market today. How c’d you tell exactly how much we lost?”

“Really? That’s what you’re going to lead with?”

“Yes!”

“I make it my business to spot what others don’t,” Varric said, shuffling the cards again. “In case you haven’t noticed, cunning thieves like us have to work quick. Takes one to know another.”

The alcohol was fueling a wicked humor — Maker, Bethany’s eyes were going to get stuck like that if she rolled them any harder. “Oh, sure, I _noticed_ , but it’s just that y’ didn’t seem that _good_ , if you couldn’t disable the guy in one shot. Didn’t even get your arrow back, did you? Snapped off in his shoulder.”

“Oh-ho! Bird’s got a mouth on her. Am I supposed to sit here and take criticism from a rogue who took three whole seconds to realize she’d been robbed?”

“Thievery has never been her strong suit,” Bethany said innocently, inspiring Hawke to ask “Who’s side’re you on?” and Varric to nod sagely as he dealt their next hands.

“ _My_ first question,” Varric said, pointing to each of them. “Why are you ‘Hawke’ and you ‘Bethany’?”

“‘Cause ‘Marian’ is a name for an old spinster, that’s why.”

“And Bethany’s a name for a five-year-old,” Bethany grumbled. “But Marian claimed Hawke first.”

“It's androgynous,” Hawke said more seriously, an attempt at sobering herself. “I did more work with the smugglers, as the... not-mage. Athenril’s clients didn’t want to deal with Marian, but Hawke got more offers. Marian also got more invitations t’ whore herself out to various customers, so ‘Hawke’ was an easy switch to make. Voila.”

“Wait, customers? Plural?” Bethany was squinting at her, not out of anger, but concentration. “I just remember the Nevarran guy, the one with the mole.”

“The Starkhaven merchant, remember that three-day stakeout with no tips?”

“No, him? Maker’s Breath, he was like a thousand!”

“Oh, yeah, he was great.”

Varric tossed his head back and laughed as her sister made a disgusted sound.

“Our turn,” Hawke said, tossing in a cracked button for her wager. Bethany put in two acorns, and Varric had claimed he was offering to pay them in stories if he lost at cards, the cheapskate. “Beth, you go, my head hurts too much to form a sensible question.”

“All right, Serah Tethras,” Bethany began. She was still ignoring his insistence to call him Varric, though out of politeness or mischievousness like herself, Hawke couldn’t tell. “What about your brother?”

“What about him?”

Hawke clarified, “What about the bug up his ass, is what about him.”

“Good question. If you find the answer, let me know.”

“Har, har. According to the rulebook, unsatisfying responses in the game of Questions land the offender in the debt of the asker to the cost of one million sovereigns, so I hope you brought your biggest coin-purse.”

Varric chuckled and lay down two diamonds.

He’d brought them to a dank, dusty tavern called the Hanged Man, smack dab in the heart of Lowtown. It was very much a local’s secret — Hawke had heard the name around but never been inside, always a little unnerved by the wooden corpse hanging over the entrance — though if Tethras had his way and bought out the place like he claimed he would one day, it seemed he’d like that to change. The bartender recognized the dwarf the moment they’d stepped inside, and moved to a worn table occupied by two drunk humans and what looked like a dwarven businessman swindling them out of their last coin. With a few flaps of a his hands and head jerk toward Tethras, the patrons were each out of their chairs and began gravitating toward the barstools, leaving the seats open for the sisters and their newest associate.

“Bully,” Hawke had said, and Tethras laughed.

“Not like I ask them,” he said, pulling out a chair for Bethany, who looked a little more comfortable away from the Templars lingering around the Chantry courtyard, but was still eying everything from the strangers in dark corners to the brown-stained glasses with barely-concealed suspicion. “Most people here just owe me some favor or another.”

“So you keep your business through personal gratitude, not professional loyalty.” Hawke was teasing easily now, more out of curiosity to see what this businessman had up his sleeve than genuine mistrust.

“So suspicious. Have I not earned your trust yet, Messere Hawke? Would it be too much to ask for a little respect?”

“I’ll start when you start,” she tossed back, and then the drinks came.

They’d struck up easy conversation away from the gleaming marble nobility of Hightown, where Hawke always had trouble shaking the feeling of having a target painted on Bethany’s back. The dwarf’s offer of a single drink had turned into several the more she made him chuckle, and with a few ales in her and surrounded by the sounds of tipsy conversation and comfortable laughter, Hawke was starting to feel in her element. It was a feeling she had sorely missed since her evenings before Ostagar, spent in the local tavern with the other Ferelden army recruits. Bethany, the lightweight, had stuck to water after Hawke had to finish her first pint for her. She seemed to have trouble even swallowing the water at times around her own laughter.

They’d all respectfully steered away from the subject of families after Hawke’s unsuccessful questioning about Bartrand and the semi-uncomfortable pause at the painful reminder of Carver earlier that afternoon. After a couple rounds of inquiries, the subjects turned to prying about the other’s histories, then joking mockeries about the other’s histories, and both sets of answers quickly became more exaggerated than the last. (“First time I killed a man? I was five. I was building a crib for the twins with my bare hands and our father tripped and smacked his head into the frame. Never woke up. I was _five_.”) Bethany eventually ducked out of the conversation, content to listen, and occasionally Hawke caught her leaning her head into her palm, eyes closing for a moment or two.

Hawke lost track of time around the same time she began to forget who owed who how much on Wicked Grace bets. She thought they may be on round 19 or something of their see-how-much-you-can-pry-from-me game but doubted her companions cared much at this point, and so she felt odd steering the friendly conversation away from Varric’s tale of his apparently third bank robbery, just to ask the last question that was burning a hole in her throat. After checking her purse for the umpteenth time, her hands grew bored without anything to occupy them, and so she began constructing a pyramid with the cards that had lain forgotten for at least the past half-hour. The dwarf watched her for a while, amused, and then continued with his undoubtedly bullshit tale, Hawke lacking the heart (and the mood) to call his bluff.

As Beth began nodding off onto her shoulder, Hawke finally said, “Last question.”

“Go.”

“Why pay the kid to pickpocket us? Why not just ask for a drink the normal way?”

Tethras paused for a fraction of a second, naturally, but the silence held long enough for her to notice a change in the atmosphere. The pub’s din continued around them as normal, but they held eye contact for one moment, then two. Perhaps he was realizing she wasn’t as drunk as she was pretending, or reevaluating her capacity for thinking under the influence. Either sounded good to her, but then, Hawke admittedly never had the patience to wait to show the cards up her sleeves if she could make a dynamic impression now.

“Good instinct,” he replied, giving away nothing.

“Call it a hunch. Instinct's gotta make up for my poor pickpocketing detection skills.”

“You realize this is why I want you in the expedition,” Varric said, eying her over the rim of his worn mug, and Hawke honestly couldn’t tell if he was saying this with humor any more. “Not just for blasting away rocks and spiders. You invest in this shindig, you girls are splitting the profits three-ways with my brother and me. You’ll get in on the business, you’ll get invited to the meetings, you help me catch the swindlers and liars before they get the chance to rob us blind. An unfortunate necessity, but without it, I imagine people like us would be out of work.

She settled three more cards into place on her pyramid. It was two stories tall now. “Is that not your job?”

“I can’t be everywhere, Hawke. You'd be an investor, but when I say partner, I mean it.” A corner of his mouth was tipped in a sly smile now, the same one he had given her when he’d beckoned they follow him to Lowtown; she realized now it wasn’t given patronizingly, as she’d first thought, but out of familiarity, affability. An invitation, or a welcoming.

“And,” he paused here, watching the cards pile up, as if he was deciding whether or not to say this next bit. He seemed to decide so. “You know I’ve heard highly of your work. I have a good feeling about you.”

“You’re still risking a lot for a couple of strangers. What if there’s nothing down there but darkspawn and rubble?”

“We’re not working on rumors and smoke, we know for a fact there are unlooted thaigs down there. I’d be happy to show you the proof later if you like.” He eyed her shrewdly, and she had the funny suspicion he knew she was just stalling on giving him an answer. “And I keep telling you, I know your work. People have been paying attention. The name ‘Hawke’ is on many lips these days.” He added two cards to the side of her pyramid, placing them precisely where she had just been about to herself. “Not bad, for a Fereldan fresh off the boat.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

“Is it working?”

Hawke smiled. “I suppose it’s not as if we have anything better to do.”

Varric didn’t respond verbally, but she was starting to recognize that spark in his eyes, and saw the corners of his lips turn up with approval before his mouth once again disappeared behind his tankard.

Hawke pulled out a card from the bottom of the pyramid layer. This sent the rest toppling to the table, some scattering to Bethany’s lap and startling her sister awake. “C’mon pup, let’s get out of here.”

Her sister gave a wide yawn that she unsuccessfully tried to pass off as smaller than it was. “You two are done icebreaking? Any developments?”

“We’re getting married next Thursday. Bartrand’s the ring-bearer, and you’ll be wedding us.”

“Haw, haw…”

They were halfway to Gamlen’s before Hawke came to the difficult conclusion that perhaps she _was_ drunker than she thought, startled by the irritating realization that her newest business partner had just weaseled his way out of answering her last question of the game.

* * *

2.

_The expedition wasn’t exactly what you’d call a bonding experience — caverns filled with darkspawn, fifty grumpy workers, and my brother will have that effect — but it was our first time out of the city for a significant length of time, and I’ve never been one for rocks and dirt, so you can imagine how quickly us sitting around the campfire breaking bread and singing wartime tunes got old. After a week in, I could agree that Hawke’s decision to leave her sister behind was for the best — Sunshine wouldn’t have fared well down there, especially not when we took a little longer than we’d planned getting back home._

_After my brother… ah. Just two and a half weeks, about. Blondie was eventually able to recognize where we were and point us in the right direction after remembering an old roundabout passage from his maps. You ever been in the Deep Roads, Seeker? It’s very dark and very quiet if you’re not an edge and a fall away from a river of lava. I imagine that fortnight was the quietest seventeen days four people have ever spent in close company. Hawke lead us through it, though. She kept us on a short leash, made sure nobody went wandering off alone. I imagine that was her biggest fear down there, of losing anyone by accident or neglect._

—

It took a good ten minutes to convince Varric that the door wasn’t going to budge. Hawke didn’t doubt his resolve to kick it down himself — he certainly seemed upset enough — but she wanted to make use of the time they had, and in her opinion, ten minutes spent yelling at a door was ten minutes they could have spent looking for another way out.

She looked over her shoulder, assessing the others. Fenris hadn’t said a word since entering the chamber, but now appeared stone-faced and mutinous. Anders looked exhausted, resigned, as if he should have expected disaster to fall; on top of everything else, Hawke now felt a pang of shame for dragging him back into the Deep Roads. She knew he hadn’t wanted to come — he had all but admitted his terror of the place — but she’d insisted because she’d been selfish and needed a mage that knew healing, and didn’t want to risk another sibling to the darkspawn.

Maker. Bethany.

If she ever made it out of here, she’d never let her sister out of her sight.

Despite her efforts, the journey past the thaig was slow-going and began very reluctantly, as though each of her companions was looking for an excuse to drag his feet in favor of banging on the door again. Even Anders admitted defeat after half an hour of listening to Varric’s unsuccessful attempts at picking the lock, and his own frustrating discovery on the instability of the cavern walls.

“I was never one for elemental magic,” Anders admitted. “I’m afraid trying to crack or blast the door open might bring this cavern down on our heads.” He looked more stressed than she’d ever seen him and in that moment, her fear and guilt felt large enough to swallow her whole.

“You have a plan, I assume,” said Fenris’s voice suddenly. Hawke turned around; he was looking straight at her. Hawke tried to acknowledge this for what it was: not confidence in her or her leadership, but a fact that had to be true, because she was Hawke, and she had to have a plan. She had brought him here and she would get him out. She’d get all of them out.

Hawke looked at Varric, who was leaning with one hand on the door, broken lockpick still clenched in his other. He was staring at the handle as though wishing for a pickaxe to smash through the rock, or the impossible feeling of Merrill’s earthen magic to unexpectedly rise from the ground and lift them to the surface, or perhaps the sound of his brother’s voice back again on the other side.

“My plan,” she said slowly, half-hoping for a brilliant idea to hit her in the second before she finished her sentence, “is to keep moving. I think this is a dead end. I don’t want to waste any more time or exhaust ourselves on this door.”

“We don’t know what’s down any of these other corridors, Hawke,” Anders said. “The expedition took the quickest, safest path to and from the surface for a reason. If we can get back to it, we know we can get to Kirkwall. We can’t say that about these other tunnels.”

“Did you not familiarize yourself with those maps, as a Warden?” Fenris said. His voice was clipped, Hawke suspected as his extra effort to reign in his temper. “Do you remember no other routes to the surface? Exits?”

Anders ran a hand down his face. “This is an uncharted area for a reason. It’s weeks under the surface and the Wardens had no business investigating this thaig. We had no reason to travel here, so no reason to study the maps at any length. Though — ” He looked thoughtful for half a second, and Hawke lit with hope for a brief moment, before he shook his head. “I heard Stroud was leading his own expedition down a thaig about a dozen miles north of here, but I wouldn’t have the first idea how to get there. It’s much closer to the surface and we’re deeper now than I ever went with the Wardens.”

Hawke was still watching Varric.

“I’m gonna find him,” he said suddenly, his voice thick with restrained pain. Hawke had the uncomfortable realization that this was possibly the most emotional she had ever seen her friend — and perhaps ever would, if they did end up dying down here, Maker forbid. “I’m going to get out of here, I’m going to find him, and I’m gonna kill him.”

This was met with silence for a few moments. Fenris, who had seemed more than willing to argue for the pleasure of snapping Bartrand’s neck himself a minute ago, was stone silent. Hawke held her tongue out of respect for her friend, and Anders — Anders simply looked tired.

“Come on,” she said eventually and she made sure to keep her voice courteous and understanding, in an admittedly vain hope that it might set the tone for the rest of their trip. “Let’s get moving.”

—

There were arguments. Of course there were. It seemed as if they would never end in the beginning, when she learned how difficult it was to keep track of time without the expedition’s chronometers at hand. Several sunless days could have passed before Fenris finally stopped snarling at Anders for his half-snort after the elf had gotten caught in an ancient tripwire. They’d had enough to disagree about in Kirkwall, but down here, a million minor issues turned into clipped statements and loud noises of disapproval: food rationing, the temperature, Hawke’s choices in friendships. They were never subtle in their disagreements, but Hawke counted it a blessing that they had yet to raise their voices loud enough to shake the stalactites, or any such dramatic exaggerations she was sure Varric would add to their tale after they had lived to tell it. She clung to that belief, because the thought of him forever remaining as silent as he had been, never recovering from his brother’s treachery, wasn’t one she cared to entertain.

It became common for Fenris to disappear each time they made camp, or at least what passed for a camp when they had only three bedrolls and a couple of bread rations and dried fruit to share around. Hawke suspected this was Fenris’s way of signaling he needed time alone without a crumbling mansion to retreat into; or perhaps he was searching for a way out to keep himself busy? She let him go each time, despite her automatic gut-like reflex to call him back, assured he would return eventually, not out of loyalty, but a lack of other company or better options. He never offered an explanation for these solo trips but occasionally returned with a dead deepstalker, and would roast the meat over their fire as Varric sharpened his bolts and Anders slept to ignore the sound of darkspawn calls in his ears.

The worse arguments, she noticed, would usually begin while she was asleep and therefore unavailable to keep the peace. She quickly learned to stop relying on Varric to act as mediator, who she normally would have trusted to spot a shadow of a disagreement a mile away and put a bolt straight through the bickering before it began.

But he remained quiet, and when Hawke wasn’t busy trying to ignore the way the hairs on the back of her neck raised listening to pointed comment by Anders, or a snarl from Fenris, she noticed Varric was starting to take time out to himself, too.

“Do me a favor,” she said to Varric as they were squeezing their way through a collapsed passage. Surprisingly, Fenris was leading the way, just a bit out of earshot, and Anders was lingering behind, as miserable and bone-tired as she’d ever seen him. “When you tell people about this, don’t mention the fact that we couldn’t stand the sight of each other after only a couple days. Anders blasted darkspawn blindfolded as five deepstalkers chewed at his leg, you and I never shut up, and Fenris downed an entire bottle of vodka, put us all on his back, and flew us to the surface.”

Varric’s lips twitched upwards humorlessly in a sign Hawke suspected meant that he was trying to pacify her. He gave no other response. Hawke hadn’t exactly expected an outright laugh, but this seemed so uncharacteristic, she wasn’t sure whether it was her place to poke at it further, so she let him be.

Being the big sister to your friends was hard, she kept telling herself, when she only got the position because she forced dissimilar people to act like family in the first place.

 _They don’t have to be family,_ she thought furiously a few days later, after a surprisingly well-fed dragon trapped in a dwarven tomb had nearly taken Fenris’s head off, and he promptly snapped at Anders for the thousandth time that no, he didn’t need healing, shut up and tend to Hawke. _They just have to work together._

She wasn’t so unaware to believe she was carrying the whole trip on her own shoulders — Fenris was a surprisingly good hunter, Anders was as reliable as a rock and had saved them from more than a dozen dead ends in this neverending labyrinth, and Varric’s bolts flew as well as they ever had, perhaps even better when they were caught unaware by darkspawn or whatever those foul winged beasts that had once flown into her face had been. Varric was, in fact, saving her neck in combat more than ever; it seemed all three men still felt the same allegiance toward and respect for her, but simply weren’t bothering with the extra effort they normally took to extend the temporary hand of truce to the others. A week after discovering the red lyrium — by her assumption — Fenris and Varric were sporting large multicolored bruises on every limb and Anders looked as thin as Fenris’s broadsword, and nobody was saying a word to each other that wasn’t prompted by her feeble attempts at conversation.

That was it, really, her biggest fear, bigger than losing one of them the darkspawn, than the dragons down here, and at times it felt larger than the fear that she’d never see Beth or her mother again. The feeling — no, the certainty — that without her, her friends weren’t really friends at all. They couldn’t stand each other. Even Varric, at his lowest, didn’t want to talk to her.

It was purely business. This whole thing only started because she’d agreed to be a part of his business. As soon as the business turned sour, what good was she to him? To any of them?

Something snapped when she woke to a fight — an actual full-blown fight, not the half-insults that had become more common since they’d all apparently lost their energy to bicker out loud about a thousand miles back.

“ — five minutes to remember your precious maps, we might not have spent the day crawling back up that bloody pit.” When she opened her eyes, Fenris was out of her line of sight, apparently keeping his distance from Anders by pacing one side of the small, cavernous room like a caged animal. As much as she felt exhausted and almost dizzy just watching him exert all that energy, despite the size of the Deep Roads, she hadn’t been able to shake the clawing, overwhelming sense of claustrophobia, either.

“I apologized,” came Anders’s voice testily from the other side of the fire, “for that misdirection. Many times. I told you all before how unfamiliar I am with this part of the Deep Roads. Would you have me grovel for your forgiveness further?” Hawke couldn’t see him through the flames, but she could imagine the look on his face, eyes narrowed but worn, like he was expecting the anger. She’d always felt like a heel starting arguments with Anders for this reason.

Fenris stalked over to the fire; she could see his feet facing the mage, bloody and scraped and in desperate need of healing that he continued to refuse. “I’d have you lead us out of this damn maze, as the only one of us with Warden training, Warden associates, Warden foreknowledge — ”

“I don’t know how to make this clearer to you,” Anders’s voice came louder, talking over Fenris’s. “ _I’ve told you everything I know._ Hawke’s misstep is not my fault. _This is not my fault_.”

They hadn’t realized she was awake. Ah.

“No.” Fenris’s voice was low and vicious. “Perhaps it was simply well-intentioned but naive faith in the wrong people that has brought us here.”

That hit something in her, but she didn’t have time to pick it apart, because her thoughts were interrupted by Varric’s voice speaking up for the first time in what felt like a century:

“We get the point, Fenris.” She’d never heard Varric call Fenris by name before. She had an odd sense that this may be Varric Tethras, actually angry, on her behalf. “This isn’t Hawke’s fault, either.”

“You misunderstand,” Fenris’s voice came, a bit further away now. He was back on the other side of the room again. “I should not have — come. This was a mistake.”

Something in his voice told her that he wasn’t just talking about the expedition.

The others didn’t respond. Hawke supposed there was nothing to say to that.

After a few minutes there were muffled sounds of Anders and Varric retreating to their bedrolls. Fenris paced for a while longer; she watched the shadows he made on the other side of the cavern wall as the fire grew lower and lower until it was mere embers settling under the logs. Eventually, she saw his feet bring him to the fire, which he extinguished before she heard sounds of him settling on the bare ground a few feet to her right.

With the fire extinguished, she had a sudden horrible flash of understanding that hit a tender part of her, a vulnerable side that had only seen fit to expose its ugly head down in this miserable maze of tunnels and monsters: they were still talking and bickering as much as ever, had been from the beginning, but had learned to wait till she was sleeping to exchange the worst of it. To spare her feelings? To share their growing lack of faith in their chances at survival? In her?

They’d also stopped keeping watch, apparently. She was angry and sympathetic all at once.  As the only one left awake, she knew it would be prudent to stay that way, light another fire and listen for trouble, but she also knew what they knew. Understood why they had stopped caring.

Hawke waited until she could hear the individual sounds of the others sleeping, and then she rose silently. In the dark, she quietly collected her daggers and a worn torch, and started walking.

—

She found herself at a dead end, legs dangling over the edge of what was once a bridge overlooking a river of lava several stories down.

She missed the sunlight, missed not being reliant upon a dwindling torch supply, missed not having to fear and investigate every dark corner of a new cavern when she entered it. She missed her sister and mother and Gamlen’s house, a bit, if not the man himself. She missed the stupid drunkard that made sure to share his atrocious poetry every Thursday evening at the Hanged Man, and missed Isabela’s laughter, and glimpsing Aveline’s familiar shield in battle, and Carver, damn him, love him, and her father, five years dead and still in her thoughts every morning when she awoke, and —

There was a small exhale and shift of fabric as she sensed someone sit next to her. Of course.

“Owe you an apology,” came Varric’s rough voice eventually, softly. Like the way he talked to Merrill, sometimes, when she was having difficulty adjusting to city life and the prejudice she’d encounter talking to the humans of the city. Maker, she missed that girl desperately, too.

Hawke opened her mouth to reply when she felt a familiar, mortifying burning at the back of her eyes. She turned back to stare at the other side of the wide cavern, the crumbling bridge they might have once crossed easily on their trip to the surface if they had been here a decade, a century, a millennia ago.

“I feel we’ve been down here for years, Varric.”

He sighed heavily. “When we get out of here, I’m buying you two dozen of those disgusting Ferelden meat pies you’re always going on about.”

“With what money? You sunk even more coin into this than I did.”

He glanced at her with raised eyebrows and mild surprise. “We still haven’t found our treasure yet. Were you thinking of leaving without it?”

“Maker's breath, Varric — ”

“Oh, you’ve been looking for a way _out_? No wonder. Here I was thinking we were wandering in circles till we found an underground treasure trove or Blondie teaches himself alchemy and turns piss to gold.”

Her mouth made a funny little squirm without her consent.

“I’ll talk to them,” he said. “I should’ve done earlier. I’m sorry, Hawke. Just… Bartrand — ”

“I know. I get it.” What was there to say? What she wanted to tell him was also the cheapest, most disingenuous thing she was sure he didn’t want to hear, but she said it anyway, for lack of anything better. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

“I’ve been wondering how he could've done it, but it doesn’t matter, does it?” he said firmly, as if trying to convince himself, and ran a hand across his face. “It can wait. Getting our asses out of here is more important than hating my brother and — ”

She waited for an end to his sentence, but none came. When she looked at him again, his jaw was clamped shut and he was looking furious with himself, as if he had already said too much.

...And himself?

Hawke wondered for a moment how she might feel, if she were a surfacer dwarf and had led her friends into a failed expedition that had robbed all of their coin and might yet end in their deaths. She wondered how it might feel to know nothing about surviving what should be her own homeland, and to have that lack of knowledge now slowly killing each and every one of them. She wondered if she might not grow quiet and distant for a while too.

No, she didn’t wonder. She knew.

“You doing okay?”

Impossibly, he looked amused. “You’re asking me?”

“You haven’t spoken in about twelve days. At least to me.” She tried not to sound bitter.

His mouth twisted and he followed her line of sight, staring at the outcropping of rock that had once been a bridge at the height of the dwarven empire. This had once been a city, where people lived and civilizations thrived and Varric’s ancestors might have raised their families. He might have been raised down here. She would never have had reason or means to travel the Deep Roads, or know him at all.

“Fuck, Hawke,” he said finally. “He’s my _brother_.”

She circled her arm around his back before she could stop herself. Somehow, in the movement, her head ended up on his shoulder. She wasn’t sure who leaned into who first.

“Want to stop by your ancestors’ tombs and pray for them to drop a rockslide on Bartrand’s head?”

He snorted a bit. “I doubt whatever ancestors I have down here would listen to a surfacer. Disgraced house sent to live in exile, remember?”

“That’s not so bad. Seneschal Bran once kicked me out of the Viscount’s Keep for being too Fereldan.”

Success! His mouth actually opened and laughter came out. It was short-lived, but she counted it as a victory.

Varric was quiet for a long time, entertaining himself by tossing pebbles over the side of the bridge. Hawke kicked at one as it fell down into the lava below. “I’ll get the two numbskulls to cooperate,” he said eventually.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. I haven’t been here. I’m here now.”

She felt his head turn a bit toward hers; he was speaking just above her forehead.

“You’re going to be a rich woman, Hawke,” he told her. “I did promise you.” She couldn’t see his face from her position but she imagined he might be looking at her while he said it.

There were evenings at the Hanged Man, sometimes, when she’d said something particularly witty or insightful (in her opinion, anyway), and maybe Beth or Isabela or Anders would laugh, but she’d catch Varric smiling at her like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her. At first she had thought it was his odd way of showing amusement, but _fondness_ wasn’t quite the right word, either. It was as if he was looking at her but seeing another — and the way Isabela said he talked about her to other Hanged Man patrons, sometimes, seemed as if he was describing someone else entirely. As if he was describing someone she could be, or might yet be. Like he believed in her, more than a business partn — a friend probably should.

Like he believed in her. Times like that, she believed in him, too, and in the magic of the stories he’d tell, even if she didn’t believe the stories themselves.

Times like this, now, she started believing in them again.

* * *

3.

_It was a victorious but exhausted crew that emerged from the Deep Roads and returned to Kirkwall. You can imagine the state your beloved narrator was in, having just lost the companionship of his dear brother — your face will get stuck like that if you keep snorting at me, Seeker —_

_Yet that paled in comparison to the news that awaited us back home. Hawke, of course, immediately headed to Gamlen’s, Anders to his patients in Darktown, Fenris to the market to spend his earnings on sharp armor and chewing tar or whatever he does in his spare time, and myself, to the Hanged Man for a well-earned nap. Which I was promptly awakened from approximately two hours later, when Hawke banged into my suite in a flurry of noise and movement._

_It was hard to get anything out of her; she was ranting about her mother again, mostly, so it took me a while to understand the most recent problem had not begun with Leandra at all, but with Bethany. Bethany being taken to the Circle, and Hawke arriving home from the expedition just in time to see her sister being dragged out of their home like a dog by the Knight-Captain, after which the ritual familial argument began._

_Luckily for me, Hawke didn’t seem to have used her energy up in that conversation; she was furious enough to rant through to the evening, through several rounds of Corff’s finest, even through Isabela’s and Merrill’s attempts at humor when they bumped into us at the bar. Losing her other sibling without warning, the only other family member she had been close to, just after several weeks of rigorous mental and physical exhaustion, before the chance to celebrate the expedition’s success — it took a while to recover from that._

_The following months were some of the most uncomfortable for us together, with Hawke out of it for a while. Most of her following year was spent buying back the Amell mansion, remodeling, and furnishing the estate. It seemed her heart wasn’t really in it anymore, but she’d promised her mother, and I imagine living with Gamlen without her sister there anymore made for further incentive. We ran around without Hawke for a while, mostly, but helped her out with the house when we got tired of that. Seemed the least we could do._

—

When the day finally came — despite herself, she felt as though a part of her knew it was inevitable, and she had imagined the arguments her mother would throw at her on That Day a thousand times, planned for the worst — but when the day finally came, she would have preferred for Varric not to be there. Or anyone, really, to witness it. She’d’ve preferred to spend it completely alone.

But he was, and when That Day came, the day Bethany was finally captured by Templars, despite her planning and protecting and worrying, it came anyway, and there he was. Fenris and Anders were absent, having left for their respective hovels, and Gamlen’s estate was thus rid of what would have been their undoubtedly colorful commentary. Small miracles.

“What are you doing?”

“Marian — it’s fine, it’s okay — ”

“What the hell is going on?”

“ _Where have you been?_ ”

“You can’t take her. You — I’ve seen you before, we helped you with Keran — ”

“Serah Hawke — ”

“I’m going, it’s fi — ”

“It is NOT FINE, Bethany, you’re no — ”

“Don’t make this difficult, okay? Please — ”

“Serah, if you don’t calm down, I’ll have to arrest you on the charges of interfering wi — ”

“ — ‘s all well and good, but if you lot could move this OUT OF MY HOUSE — ”

“ — r sister’s cooperation is the only reason we are not punishing in everybody in this vicinity for harboring a dangerous mage. Am I clear?”

“Hawke — please, come on, let’s — ”

“Don’t do anything rash, Marian, please — ”

She barely heard the door shut under her mother’s sobbing and Gamlen’s swearing and Varric urging her out of the house. And then there was this odd white noise ringing in her ears, because this was happening too fast, she’d brought back enough gold to set them up for life, she should’ve been quicker, and she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye, like Carver, like Father —

“You’ve been gone for months, the rest of the expedition arrived over a fortnight ago — “

“We couldn’t help it — Mum, we were trapped — ”

“Your sister was _alone_ , we’ve been waiting — ”

“Mother, we have it — I have it, that’s why — ”

“Bethany on the streets trying to earn enough for all of us herself, Carver would’ve been out there with her, your father — ”

In Hawke's horrible fantasies, Bethany was caught due to Hawke's own folly: she’d forgotten to close the window while Bethany was lighting the evening fire, she’d forgotten to remind her sister to nudge her staff just out of view as a Templar came around a corner. In her mind’s eye, of course, Carver would have been there to yell at her too, but in her grief, her mother seemed upset enough to make up for the discrepancy.

The Deep Roads were dangerous. She’d protected her sister. She’d done everything right. It wasn’t her fault.

Varric was there to remind her of this as the day progressed, the first time the moment he led her out the door of Gamlen’s, politely closing the door without word of goodbye to her relatives inside. Hawke’s vision was swimming — Maker, she was crying. Not here. Maker, not here.

He said nothing as he led her through the streets of Lowtown to the back door of a lesser-known pub by the docks, the Sailor’s Daughter, which Isabela liked to frequent when she wasn’t sleeping off a hangover in Varric's suite.

He said nothing as he ordered drinks and sat through her tearful mess of history that came spilling out as she struggled to explain her family’s bad blood. She had gained a fortune and was now out a father, a brother, a sister, a mother’s respect.

His hand on her back, though, as she swallowed down her third mug, and fourth, and who was counting, anyway? — that was here. His warm hand covering hers when his other finally pushed her mug away, that was here.

He stayed with her through her explanations and apologies and the bouts of silence, and then led her back to his suite, his bed, and let her stay the night before heading to the table to sort through the expedition’s funds. Her last glimpse before sleep claimed her was of his back leaning over the desk, quill scratching away at the expense and profit reports.

Varric, at least, was here.

—

She threw everything she had into the estate, because that was what all of this was for, and without invitation, without sending out a messenger or stopping by a single house, she soon saw everyone visiting her new place of residence of their own volition.

Merrill arrived the same day Hawke signed the papers in the Viscount’s Keep, armed and ready with several small boxes of Dalish decorative pieces and handmade housebreaking gifts. Aveline, while busy in the barracks herself, sent out requests for off-duty guards to assist with moving and carrying in items after a quick visit to assess the estate and give her nod of approval. Isabela took the liberty of designating herself as the Amell estate’s interior designer, and Hawke, though she hadn’t seen Isabela organize anything more complicated than the inside of her purse-string, accept the announcement welcomely. Anders, occupied as always with his clinic, pointed her to Lirene’s Ferelden Imports, who was happy to trade for used furniture after Hawke left greater donations in the box out front. Fenris simply arrived at the mansion one day in a loose worker’s tunic with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and without a word, set upon carrying and arranging the furniture as Hawke and Isabela designated. Hawke took his behavior as a silent apology for the Deep Roads, whatever it was he believed he had to apologize for. Seeing him work silently around the house as he did, however, struck something uncomfortable in her, and so by way of her own apology, she hesitantly offered him the task of dismantling and disposing of the slaver’s effects and cages in the basement as he saw fit. By the way his eyes lit up, that seemed to have been one of her better ideas.

When she put her memory to it, Hawke could never claim she saw Varric lift a finger, but she knew in his own way, he was taking care of – well, nearly everything else. She didn’t see him often during the day, quick to fill his brother’s seat in the Merchant’s Guild after Bartrand’s mysterious disappearance, but she saw the results of his assistance every morning with the timely deliveries and arrival of specialized prepaid workers. Regardless of each day’s events, they always reconvened in the Hanged Man in the evening, talking about everything except the disappointed families and siblings that weren’t waiting for them back home. And if she spent more nights at Varric’s than at Gamlen’s during all of this, then who was to know but those involved?

Hawke was almost drunk at his table, and Varric was pretending to be while rambling on about the one time he and his “mate Gerav” lit their trousers on fire (“And we ran through Hightown around midnight, you know, just to see who would talk about it the next morning”), and Isabela was passed out on Hawke’s elbow, when she leaned over to Varric and kissed her best friend.

“Sorry,” she said three seconds later, and she had the self-awareness to realize that that was not how she had wanted it to go, their first time. Their first time? Apparently she had planned such a thing. Subconsciously? She wasn’t sure. Was this her third beer or fourth? “Or — no, I’m not. Or I might be, if you are. I’m sorry.”

Varric looked as if she had taken him completely by surprise but was trying not to show it. “I’m not.”

“Kay. Then I’m not.”

He eyed her in that fond way of his, as if she hadn’t just planted one on his mouth and interrupted his two favorite pastimes of telling stories and talking about himself. “...You okay, Hawke?”

“Mm. Fine. Good.” Something was burning behind her eyes, at the back of her throat, in the pit of her stomach. He wasn’t reacting well at all. Thank the Maker she had indulged enough to call foul on intoxication and pretend it never happened in the morning. Good. Fine. Everything was still fine.

“You’re not.” He put his hand over the rim of her mug and pushed it onto the table. With his other, he brought out a handkerchief, bringing it to her face. “Here.”

It was only then that she realized she was crying again in front of him, and no, no, once she started, she couldn’t stop —

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart, it’s alright — ” He’d never called her that before. What had changed? Was this pity? Andraste. She couldn’t do this. The door was just there, and Isabela’s head was still heavy on her arm, she’d have to push her off to leave, that would wake her up, and that would mean questions. Maybe if she hurried, Merrill would still be awake, she could stay at hers for the night —

Again, she ended up in the crook of his neck, muttering apologies, excuses, explanations for why she was still upset, months later. She was sure none of it made any sense, but he listened to it all anyway, silent, until she rasped out, “Thank you.”

“Shit. The hell for, Hawke?”

She was on to his second handkerchief. “Dunno. Just seems like you’re always there, even when you’re not.”

He shifted underneath her, hand coming up to rest on the back of her neck. “Hawke.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“Yeah, I do. But not now, all right? You need to sleep off the drink. I’ll be here in the morning.”

He ended up sacrificing his bed to her and Isabela for the evening. As she settled in, Hawke imagined the scene that would greet her in the morning: he’d let her down gently. She’d wave it off on the drink. He’d probably see right through her, but she’d insist. He’d let it go. They’d never speak of it again.

When she awoke, she found her two friends around Varric’s table, half-heartedly playing Wicked Grace or Diamondback, as Varric did reports with another hand and Isabela braided her hair with the other. Hawke wasn’t much paying attention to their conversation when she stumbled to their table and reached for a mug.

“Maker’s balls, Hawke, no more for you. Are you still drunk from last night?”

“I was going for water, lay off.”

Isabela reached for the jug at the other end of the table and poured the water directly into Hawke’s mouth from the spout. As Varric protested at the use of his dining equipment and Hawke swallowed, Isabela asked, “Want in on this hand?”

“No, thanks.”

“Just as well, it was getting boring.” She tossed her cards on the table, and they scattered across the wood, one bouncing off and landing on Hawke’s knee. “Varric, tell us a tale.”

“As if I don’t enough. What suits your fancy?”

“Tell us about the time Hawke broke into the Gallows to free her sister.”

Hawke started. Varric paled and stared at Isabela with something approaching a warning in his eyes.

The pirate, on the other hand, looked unbothered. “Well you will, won’t you, love?”

“I,” Hawke began, and couldn’t finish. _Take care of everyone_ was the last thing she had heard from her father, and she had obliged. She’d mentored her brother and protected him from harm in the army, like a good sister. She’d taken care of her mother, like a good daughter. She’d brought home money, like a good breadwinner. She’d set her family up for life, like the eldest child should. She hadn’t protected her sister, but perhaps that story wasn’t over yet. Perhaps she could rescue Bethany from the Circle, leave this city, go home now that the Blight was over.

And yet. _Don’t do anything rash_ was the last thing she had heard from Bethany. And like a good sister, she would oblige.

“Imagine it for us, storyteller,” Isabela said to Varric. “Don’t disappoint your fans.” She gestured to the two of them, and Hawke, drawn out of her mind, finally smiled.

Varric seemed to find his inspiration, and began a tale daring enough to rival Andraste, in which a six-foot-tall Marian Hawke marched right into the Gallows and orchestrated the liberation of her sister and fifteen other mages without a speck of blood flicking onto her armor (which was of the highest quality, kind, and manufacture, of course). He only spoke for perhaps ten minutes, but somehow — Hawke lost track along the way — Bethany Hawke’s wild escape from the Kirkwall Gallows somehow managed to involve hiring Jethann from the Blooming Rose to seduce three Templars, using Aveline’s red headband as a slingshot, and concealing seven daggers within Isabela’s left boot. She wasn’t quite sure how necessary that last one was — or any of it, really — but her friends were enjoying themselves, and, well, she couldn’t honestly say she wasn’t, either.

“Tell that one tonight,” Isabela said finally, taking her feet from the table. “Don’t change a word.”

“No first draft is worth enough to forego an editor, m’lady.”

“ _Writers_.” She downed the last of Varric’s mulled ale and swept from her chair. “All right, I promised Merrill I'd show her that hat shop today, then I think I'll get drunk again and bother Aveline. Tomorrow’s her guard-captain ceremony or other, she needs to be distracted now more than ever.”

“Incredible she survived without you this long,” Hawke said, amused. She had rested her head on her folded arms on the table around the time Bethany had double-backflipped out of a Gallows window in Varric’s tale, and felt perfectly comfortable not moving for the next year or so, thanks.

“Isn’t it? I’ll have to remind her of that tonight. _Ciao_ , you lot.”

The sound of footsteps, and then the door closing. Hawke closed her eyes now. Varric’s suite always smelled like he did, stale liquor and wood polish and fresh ink. It’d always felt — comforting wasn’t usually the right word, but it was today, after last night. She didn’t open her eyes when she felt a hand stroke a bit of her hair, fingers brushing against her cheek.

“Hawke?”

“Mm.”

“You all right now?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re not.”

“Probably not.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“A second draft already? Your editor’s quick. Go ‘head, then.”

There was a breath of half-laughter, before: “I’ve been wondering if you’d do that for a while. Last night.”

She opened her eyes but didn’t raise her head. He was staring at her hair, the forgotten cards, the wall. Anywhere but her.

“You never mention my romantic life in your stories,” she said aloud, half a realization, half an accusation.

He hmm’ed. “I suppose I don’t.”

Hawke raised her head slowly, processing, and his hand dropped to the table. “I hesitate,” she said haltingly, “because of the Bianca Problem.”

“Bianca has no problems. She’s sitting over there, quietly, minding her own business.”

“Bianca’s the jealous type,” Hawke reminded him. “You’ve said so before.”

“How presumptuous of me,” he said, amused. “The truth of it is, I’ve behaved myself. Bianca’s never actually had a reason to be jealous, so that assertion may — how do I put this — simply have been me talking out of my ass.”

Hawked started to laugh before his words caught up with her. “Never had a reason?”

“Well. How many can rival the finest crossbow for my affections?”

“The crossbow, certainly none.” Hawke paused, knowing she was treading on thin ice, possibly even reaching at something that wasn't there, though personally she doubted it. “Her namesake, I’m more concerned about.”

That brought the silence she was expecting, but to her surprise, Varric looked neither angry nor mournful over a lost lover, nor even trapped in thought. After a moment, she realized that he was simply searching for words.

“I’ve a dilemma,” he said finally.

She swallowed. “Oh?”

“A conundrum,” he corrected himself, “that contradicts with every bit of the writer in me, and yet still insists to me that it’s a story worth following.”

“Of?”

“Far as I can see, we have a classic case of two characters suffering under a tragic miscommunication, in which both believe the other is romantically uninterested, or at worst, otherwise occupied,” he began, and Hawke had to marvel, _Maker, Varric_. “You a big reader, Hawke?”

“I find myself listening to tales more than reading them as of late, Varric.”

“Naturally. Well, the narrative arc for romances usually follows the same parameters regardless of storytelling medium, hand-waving certain embellishments here and there.” His hand, still where he’d left it after it had dropped to the table, suddenly looked very lonely. Before she realized what she was doing, Hawke found herself reaching for it, threading her fingers into his, slightly encouraged by the squeeze he offered in return. “First off,” he flicked out his index finger on his free hand, “they only get together at the end.”

“Strike one against us.”

“Indeed. Unless you count the expedition our climactic finish.”

“Let’s not. Second?”

“Two, a necessary meet-cute.”

“An attempt was made. Was that not what you paid the pickpocket for that day in Hightown?”

“I have become temporarily deaf and tragically didn’t hear anything you’ve just said, Hawke. Three, tons of sexual innuendo and over-exaggerated flirting.”

“Does Isabela count enough for the both of us?”

“Perhaps. I’ll take it up with my publisher. Finally, we need a tragic separation, followed by a touching reunion. Considering we’ve been more or less joined together at the hip since birth, I’m just not sure how well this story will fly.”

“Ah.” Hawke pretended to think about it. “Seems like since we’re breaking all the rules anyway, we should skip all that other stuff and get straight to the shagging.”

At that, he laughed, and when she leaned over, hand gripped tight, she could feel the smile on his mouth, and his hands and words everywhere else.

It was later when she realized that he’d done it again, expertly side-stepped her Bianca question like the frustrating little rogue he was. She thought about asking again, one day, and imagined pinning him down to the conversation and wringing an answer out of him one way or another. She thought about how many times he could possibly change the topic before he got tired of running from it. Perhaps he would answer out of exhaustion.

She imagined asking plenty of times, over the coming days and weeks and years. Their togetherness seemed an inevitable sort of thing now, stretching out into the distant horizon labeled “future” in her mind’s eye, and they had plenty of time for the tough questions later.

But he never did answer her, and she never brought up the subject again; whether to his relief or hers, she doubted either of them could say.

* * *

4.

_I most certainly am not, Seeker, just ask anyone around Lowtown._

_…Well, if you didn’t actually want her side of the story, perhaps you should’ve picked a storyteller that wasn’t close friends with the object of your search —_

_Preposterous. You know what, forget it, fine. Hawke snapped her fingers, the Chantry exploded, all the mages laughed about it, Rivaini stuffed us into her boat, and we went out for hippocras in Llomerryn. Is that what you want to hear?_

_Is that — Seeker! Andraste’s ass, I was kidding. Yeah, yeah, Maker. No, I don’t — I take this all seriously, yeah? But you can’t —_

_I don’t. I don’t know where she is. All right? There’s the truth of it. I don’t. Yeah, I’m just as disappointed in me as you are. We split in Wycome. Thought it best if I returned here, help Aveline keep peace, get back in touch with my contacts if there really was a war coming. Also, if we’re being frank, traveling so far north without warning scared me a bit, so I turned ‘round, figured I’d catch up with them again sooner or later. They were to head on to Rivain and contact me from any new city when they were sure they hadn’t been followed. They sent a letter from Afsaana, a port Rivaini knew, to tell me that Daisy decided to head back to Kirkwall, to help the elves in the alienage. She spent a few weeks here but fled when she heard your little Chantry-sanctioned scavenger hunt was headed this way._

_…No, I never heard another word. Far as I know, they could still be in Rivain. The last letter was near a year ago, though, so I doubt it._

_Andraste's ass. Yes, I promise. On my honor, or whatever you want. Not sure how much a dwarf’s word means to the Chantry, but then what does, other than a letter of surrender from the mages, these days? Hawke’s not hiding under my boot. You’ve seen the state of her mansion for yourself. She hasn’t been around for a long time._

—

Her arrival was all very hush-hush, of course. She could imagine Varric, a month ago, paying a kitchen hand to pass off a letter to a runner headed for Jader, who sends the letter to, she doesn’t know, a cook in Cumberland, and so on and so forth until a very worn, tea-stained request for help had reached her in Hasmal. Fenris and Isabela understood, of course, though they’d both had enough of laying down their lives for others for one lifetime, and so she packed and traveled alone. Hawke arrived at Skyhold quietly, crept through the castle to the battlements as per his instructions, and tipped off an errand boy to inform Varric of her arrival.

She leaned over the edge of the battlements. Odd, that this was the closest she’d been to home in a decade. Perhaps Bethany and Aveline had had the same thought and taken refuge in Ferelden? It’d been near seven years since she’d spent any significant time with her sister when they weren’t running or fighting for their lives. Seemed like that’s what she'd done most of her life, run and fight. Is that not what they did in the Inquisition? Run across Thedas, skewer some demons, fight to stop some ruddy darkspawn? Just the thought of it was exhausting.

Part of her, she felt, had never really recovered from losing Lothering. She still felt a gut-like resistance at the idea that Kirkwall was another temporary home she’d lost, only worth a couple chapters in a much longer, war-torn book — but hadn’t it been years? Wasn’t Lothering still rebuilding, all of Ferelden still in mourning from the last Blight? Was she not still recovering herself?

She tried to convince herself, that’s why she was here now. To stop running and hurting, to fight one last time for something good, to affect change at a higher level. After this, she’d gather Bethany and whichever others she can find, and she’d — she’d wait for Varric to be done here, and then she’d settle them all some place nice and urban. By the sea, for sailors to come and go, some city with slavers to kill but no Tevinter history to keep them encouraged, with an elven population, with dozens of pubs and a crowd colorful enough to keep a writer inspired for lifetimes over.

After that — she didn’t know what. But it had to be better than whatever this was, now, this state the former Champion was trapped in between outright war and an unsteady peace. She knew very well the only reason the Chantry stopped hunting for her was because its hands were now tied elsewhere — after they elected a new Divine, settled the mage-Templar war, stopped Corypheus, where did that leave people like her?

After an hour or so of entertaining herself by dropping pebbles off of the roof and watching them bounce into the trenches below, the sound of footsteps and a door creaking open alerted her to someone’s arrival.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“Come join me, I think I’ve managed to figure out the perfect formula to pitch a pebble just so that it lands on that tiny outcropping of rock, down there below the guard tower.”

He joined her without a further word of invitation. Her favorite thing about Varric changed hourly, but today, she loved that every conversation she had with him always felt like a natural continuation of the one that it preceded, as if they’d never parted, as if they never would.

When he reached the edge, he scooped up a handful of rocks from the pavement and chucked them over the side with abandon. They listened to the sound of them falling, clattering against the mountainside. A few scattered and landed on a lower level of the battlements, rolling down the endless stairs. One, however, battled the odds and fell past the guard tower, bounced off the outcropping, and tumbled into the abyss below; she had an odd moment of reminiscence back to the time they’d shared in the Deep Roads a lifetime ago, watching stones fall into another abyss, forever worrying how they would make it out of this next battle alive. They both watched the final stone until it fell out of sight, and then Varric, seemingly at the end of his patience, turned and dragged her head down to reunite her mouth with his.

Several minutes were spent welcoming each other back to their habits, their warmth, the familiarity of them together again. This, Hawke had thought once, and she made up her mind again now, was her _actual_ favorite thing about Varric: wherever he was felt like coming home. Barring the Deep Roads or Tevinter, she suspected, she imagined they could likely put down roots and start anew anywhere. The thought of it, along with her newfound decision to drag him and set down permanence elsewhere, somewhere safe and away from all this bullshit, was comforting.

“The Inquisitor will be here in a few moments,” he murmured after a slight breath for air.

“Is that a fact or a loose estimation?”

“Both. I’m not sure. I said to meet on the battlements whenever she was ready.”

“That could be five hours from now, with her schedule.”

“Do you want to test that?”

“Is that not what you invited me here for?”

His laughter drowned out the sound of the door opening behind him, and an elegant but confused voice: “Varric?”

He straightened and collected himself within a second. “Inquisitor — meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.”

—

After answering the Inquisitor’s questions as best she could, and then entertaining herself for a few hours with the soldiers in the training grounds, Hawke found Varric that afternoon in a far corner of the Great Hall, speaking once again with the Herald herself. Deciding not to interrupt, she turned again, intending to head to the tavern and wait for him there, when she ran into someone very tall and wearing very sharp armor.

“OW — !”

“Maker — ” a dark-haired woman reached out to steady her shoulder as Hawke rubbed at her collarbone where the metal had struck. “Forgive me, serah.”

“No harm done,” she said. “Would you kindly point me to the tavern? All these stairs look the same.”

The woman eyed her oddly. “Out the entrance, down the steps, and through the courtyard,” she said in a thick Nevarran accent. “Have you recently joined us?”

“Arrived just today, actually. I was — ah — temporarily invited to stay by of a member of the Inquisition until I get kicked out for skipping town on the Chantry’s wrath. Or until I outlive my usefulness to you all, whichever happens first.”

The stranger’s eyes widened, but before either of them could respond, Varric’s hurried voice called out from behind her: “Hawke!”

Hawke smiled warmly at him as he approached, but the woman stiffened beside her at his arrival. Varric himself slowed down when he noticed who she was with. “Seeker.”

“Varric.” Her voice was clipped now, and Hawke suddenly felt the weight of her gaze staring at them from every inch of her impressive height. “Your — friend here was just looking for the tavern.”

“The surest sign of intelligence in this castle,” came his reply, but Hawke noted the tension in the air as they spoke. “Hawke, I was just about to head over, if you wanted to join me.”

Such formality, she almost teased, but the oddity of the interaction threw her off. “Sure?”

The woman — Seeker, had Varric called her? She hoped to Andraste he didn’t mean it — looked as though she was desperate to say something very loudly, or perhaps several things, but had an air of one trying to keep the peace after a fresh argument. Varric seemed to notice too, because he finally sighed, apparently taking pity on the conversation, and waved a hand. “Hawke, this is Seeker Pentaghast. The, ah, Chantry agent assigned to finding you after you left Kirkwall. Seeker, your target.”

What an introduction. The tension seemed to grow tangible within seconds. Not really wanting to but for lack of any polite option otherwise, Hawke thrust a hand out. “A pleasure.”

The Seeker — Pentaghast — looked pained as she shook her hand in a firm grip. “I had… hoped any bad blood would have settled before our eventual meeting, though I see I was mistaken.” She seemed almost sad when she said, “Perhaps it was inevitable due to my involvement in the investigation team.”

“Might put a damper on things, yes.” Did her voice sound cold? She didn’t mean it to sound so harsh. Couldn’t help it, really, when one of hers was kidnapped, interrogated against his will, and then dragged across the Waking Sea to fight in some bloody war, but that was just her opinion.

“What I mean to say is,” Pentaghast huffed out a frustrated breath, then spoke again: “Varric’s story led me — and others — to discard your search in lieu of more permanently establishing the Inquisition at Haven. And our — interrogation — was also in part our way of identifying you as a potential leader of the Inquisition. So long as the truth was told and heard, you were never under threat from my forces.”

Hawke vaguely registered Varric saying “Bloody brilliant,” but needed a moment to recover from the Seeker’s words. “I — me?”

Pentaghast glanced to Varric. “Despite common assumption.”

“Blame me for thinking otherwise,” Varric muttered, but Hawke, slightly mollified, felt this confession had earned a more amiable response.

“And if,” the Seeker began, then stopped. “That is, if you — I’m sure you know Varric has written a book of your tales.”

“Regrettably.” Then, feeling as though she might have insulted both parties with a single word, she tried for a more lighthearted tone. “Don’t tell me you read it?”

“I — ” She looked flustered, glancing down to her twisting hands. Hawke had the odd realization that this woman— who had to have at least several inches on her, not to mention an army of Templars behind her command — was nervous about making a request of her. “I don’t wish to take up your time, but if you have a moment, I would like to ask your… view, on a few things within the text, to cross-reference the versions Varric has shared. If you had a moment.”

Hawke let out a very intelligent, “Uh,” and after noticing Varric’s half-irritated, half-amused look, figured there couldn’t be any harm. “Sure. Shall I — ”

“I’ll point you to her study later.” Varric was apparently fed up with waiting for this painful conversation to run its course and began nudging her toward the open doors that led out to the courtyard. “Good day, Seeker.”

“Good day, Varric,” Pentaghast said, still over politely, and then said in a rush, as if trying to get it all out in a single breath: “Champion, if you would like a tour around the castle or any other amenities in your room during your stay, you need only ask and I shall take care of it personally.”

She turned away before Hawke could respond, but Varric didn’t seem to care, as he had apparently made it today’s goal to show her to the tavern that very minute, lest the Maker strike him down. Hawke followed his pace down the stairs and through the courtyard, amused despite herself. “What exactly did you tell her about me?”

“What she need to know at the time,” he grunted. That seemed all he was going to say on the subject, as that very moment he pushed open the tavern doors and she was swept up in a flurry of introductions to a Qunari spy and his team of mercenaries, an elven Friend of Red Jenny, and a Grey Warden with a beard to rival her late father’s.

Varric kept her busy well throughout the afternoon with a record of seven consecutive Diamondback games, for once uninterrupted by a drunken argument or distraction instigated by their friends, after which he insisted on paying for dinner at the bar. He introduced her to a Tevinter magister (“Are you serious?” “I’m _not a magister_ , Varric, for the upteenth time — ” “You’re a mage from the Imperium, does it really matter south of the border?”), who he seemed fond of calling “Sparkler” for some reason that she didn’t feel she needed to know. There was an Antivan diplomat named Ruffles (“Josephine, if it’s all the same to you, please.”) and a Chantry spymaster — “Nightingale” — that looked oddly familiar, but she swept from the tavern before Hawke could question if she had any previous service in the Lothering Chantry. Mostly, however, he kept her well entertained with cards and drink until she realized she was being distracted, after which it became the focus of her night to puzzle out exactly what from.

It wasn’t until that evening that some of the conversation caught up with her —  _your friend_ , the Seeker had said. _Your room_. Unfamiliar. Individual.

“You didn’t tell her,” she realized later, when they were settled into his suite. He was on his side and she on her back, half underneath him. His ankles were tucked around her shins, his nose over her neck, his breath on her collarbone. “About us.”

“Andraste’s ass, of course I didn’t. You think I’d show all my cards?” His hand was splayed across her stomach, thumb rubbing circles on her skin. Maker, she’d _missed_ this.

“No, but I imagined perhaps it might have come up some other time.”

“I invite you to remember the personal rule I have about your love life, Hawke.”

“It wasn’t a stipulation in a contract, Varric. After you told Corff I used the Arishok’s head as a cider jug, I prepared myself for just about anything from you.”

The snort he gave was half-hearted. She glanced up at him: his eyes were trained on the wall, not out of avoidance, but concentration.

“Hey,” she tried.

“Mm.”

“If you want to keep this... secret, from the people here, you can just say so.”

“Maker, Hawke.”

“It’s not that?”

“Far from it.”

“Am I going to regret starting this conversation?”

He flicked at her ear. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

“I should hope not.”

It was rare for Varric to run out of words, but when alone together, she noticed it occurred slightly more often. “You ever wonder,” he finally began, “what would’ve happened if you’d turned me down?”

“...I turned you down this evening, Varric. You were two mugs over your limit.”

“On the expedition, Hawke. If you’d said no, and stuck to it, and paid no mind to the dwarf hounding you to trust in him and his fool brother’s fantasies.”

She met his eyes, but he wasn’t meeting hers. Still, she felt it necessary to look at him when she answered, “No, I don’t wonder.”

“I do,” he said to her skin. “I keep hoping none of this is real. Or maybe I’m trying to convince myself that Bartrand and I didn’t cause this. That it would’ve happened anyway.”

Hawke envisioned the red lyrium from his mind’s eye, imagined a number of bodies mutated by the horror that had swept through the continent that he considered himself responsible for — but no, she didn’t have to imagine. She still dreamt of Meredith.

She never felt conciliated when others tried to sway her opinion on her own culpability, and she didn’t offer Varric the same comfort now.

“If I’d said no,” she said slowly, “I imagine you would’ve found some other sucker to con into being your best friend, and they would’ve defeated the Arishok, defended the mages, and became the Champion of Kirkwall instead.”

“That’s quite a lot of pressure on me, Hawke. Being Champion’s no walk in the park, but Eternal Chronicler and Official Best Friend of the Champion? Seems a fair deal harder.”

“Unquestionably.” A beat, then she took a leap: “Though I imagine that pales in comparison to being the champion’s significant other.”

He sighed. “It’s not that, either. Maker, I’m not _ashamed_ , Hawke.”

“I can keep guessing all night,” she said, and she bit her tongue on the theories she wanted most desperately to guess, or confirm, or at least know either way, if she only had the courage to ask: _It’s Bianca. I’m the distraction. This is temporary. You don’t want word getting back to her. You can tell me, Varric. I just want to know._

“It’s — ” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “The Seeker and I had… words, today. While you were speaking with the Inquisitor.”

It wasn’t like Varric to point out the obvious. As she waited to see where he was going, she carded her fingers through his hair, taking out the tie, tossing it somewhere on the other side of the room.

“It just had me thinking.”

“...She seems stern. I wouldn’t take her criticism too personally.”

This time, his scoff was anything from half-hearted. “Easy for you to say, she adores you.”

Hawke gave a startled laugh. “I’m sorry?”

“That ‘I’d like to cross-reference your view with the tripe the dwarf published in his book’ nonsense? Hawke, she wants your autograph.”

She laughed more seriously now, loud enough to get him smiling himself. “My point — from the five minutes I’ve known her, I’ve already determined she could give Aveline a run for her money in a triathlon of armwrestling, elf-tossing, and complaining about the most popular novelist this side of Thedas.”

“Heh, you’re not wrong. Mind if I steal that?”

“I’m sure you will anyway.”

“Mm. Well, we had words. I’m sure you can imagine that conversation. It just had me thinking, it wasn’t entirely — baseless.”

“Varric — ”

“It’s not about the red lyrium, you know? Not just. But it — I asked you here.”

“You did. And here I am.” When it looked as if he was going to add a “but,” she interrupted: “and I’m glad I’m here.”

“As am I,” he said hurriedly, and lifted his head from her, pushing himself to one elbow. “Hawke — ”

“And I don’t blame this on anyone.” She closed her eyes. It felt important to get this out now, for some reason, before he could explain the rest. “So I get it, trying to keep me from it. I caught wind of all the rumors, that the Champion was in the Anderfels while I was hunting down slavers with Fenris in Tantervale. I knew what it meant. I knew what you were doing.” _And what you were saying_ , she didn’t add, and then a sudden flash of clarity: it was an apology, all of it, the silence. About her whereabouts, their intimacy. Shining light elsewhere, exaggerating her larger accomplishments, to shadow her mother, her sister, her privacy. Her own failure.

Hawke opened her eyes.

He had that look again, that half-smile, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with her. Odd reaction, considering, but then he always was full of surprises. She no longer believed he saw someone else when he looked at her like that — hard to keep on with that kind of theory after sharing a bed, really — but Varric was a romantic, and ironically, little things like that did a better job of comforting the both of them than most words could, anyway.

She held onto that hours on, when he was fast asleep on her chest and she lay wide awake, staring at the still shadows across the room. She’d missed several things since leaving Kirkwall, and of course, most of them came with the company: Varric filled half the presence of whatever room he was in, so it was natural to miss him terribly while on the run, and natural still to feel like something was missing even when they were together here now. It was no Kirkwall, was her sorry conclusion, none of it was, and would ever be. She suspected Isabela and Fenris across the Waking Sea, and Aveline taking care of Bethany, and even Merrill back home, and Anders, wherever he was now, all knew it too. Varric, she suspected, had likely known from the moment the Chantry went up in flames.

It was normal, she told herself, and she wiped at her eyes slowly so as not to wake him, to feel as if something was still missing. Families separate and homes burn and lovers part, return, leave again. It was perfectly normal to question if the best days were now behind her and realize that whatever lay ahead wouldn’t bring them back.

Kirkwall was a single chapter. This was practically expected.

She should’ve known.

—

Later — because there was always later, between them — as Hawke sat on the side of his bed and readied her belongings for the trip to Adamant, she felt the brush of his fingers on the back of her neck.

“Hey,” she said without looking around. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m up. Watching you pack atrociously, by the way.”

“Far be it from me to argue with you, our resident traveling expert. You do it then, if you like.”

He sat up against the headboard. She shoved her pack at him and he set to rearranging her things. The soft, early light from his window was open to a half-awakened sun creeping over the horizon. She watched him for a few moments, the room silent save for the sound of him moving her clothes and belongings around. Outside below in the courtyard, she could hear the murmur of voices as the castle began to stir in preparation for the day.

“You’re not taking that set of knives I got you?”

“I got plenty others. Besides, it’s not a long trip, is it?”

“It’s on the other side of Orlais, Hawke.”

“Keep them safe for me until I get back, then. Would you really want their first victims to be some scummy Venatori?”

“Who better?”

She grinned, and then something occurred to her, something she realized she’d wanted to say since the conversation with Seeker Pentaghast the previous night. “I never thanked you,” she said suddenly. “For all this.”

“All what?”

“The, you know, keeping me away from this till now, and all that rot. So thanks.”

He made a funny movement with his mouth that she interpreted as _I’m genuinely touched, you prick, but I don’t want to admit so._

She turned back to tug on her boots and tie up the laces. Gear, provisions, armor, blades, back-up blades, pack. Check. Good. Okay.

“Hey,” he said, with a light touch of fingers trailing down her spine through the cloth. And there was something in his voice that made her glance up to meet an oddly serious look on his face, and a quiet vulnerability in his eyes. “You’ll be back soon, yeah?”

“That’s the plan.”

“‘Course you will,” he said, as if to himself. “It’s just.”

She waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t, she said quietly, “I know how much you hated leaving Kirkwall, Varric.”

“...Yeah, well. What can you do.”

Hawke leaned over, feeling oddly as though this was a conversation they perhaps should have had earlier, or later. Or never. She kissed him instead of replying, and he responded in kind: bag discarded at his side, he took her face in his palms and held her there, steady against him. And then his hand was in her hair, the other on her back, pressing her face into the crook of her neck, and she realized that he wasn’t coming downstairs, that this was the latest goodbye for now. She felt his mouth press to the side of her head — felt him take a breath, as if he wanted to say something else, before releasing, letting whatever it was go unsaid. He held her tight, close enough to make her think she’d never leave Skyhold, or this room, or him ever again — before he let go for her to travel on her way.

**Author's Note:**

> There were a lot of headcanons I was given to work with, but I tried to work with these as best I could:
> 
>   * Varric paid the pickpocket so he had an excuse to a) look dashing; b) meet-cute. 
>   * The weird three years post-Deep Roads period, Hawke was mostly going through the motions and/or drunk because of depression, guilt, and mourning, which is why she doesn't seem like she knows what's going on with anything at the start of Act II.
>   * Hawke and Varric were at least banging the whole time, if not in a (frustrating) relationship.
> 

> 
> Special thanks to Krystal, who went out of her way to make a 30min video tour of Skyhold’s layout for me since I haven't played DAI yet. (My Plan B was to squint at a low-quality map that I found on Google.) Extra-special thanks with whipped cream and a cherry on top to Renne, whose keen eye and beta’ing skills saved me from many mistakes. xoxo Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and if you have a spare moment, I’d greatly welcome reviews or feedback of any kind, as this is the first substantial Dragon Age fic I’ve done (and also the first fic besides occasional drabbles that I’ve written in almost a year). Thank you for reading!


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